The Hero
by iExpress
Summary: Being a Hero is a title but it's brimming with pride.
Being the Hero of the Glade was a title brimming with pride and honour. It encompassed and implied many things about its bearer, and for the most part, all of them were true. Rayman only in his origin wasn't exactly your everyday Joe; perhaps it was that very origin that had made him such an enjoyable character to be around, too. Not only strong, brave and ambitious in his quest to protect his home and everyone in it, he was seldom seen without a smile, rarely angered by anyone who wasn't an enemy and was never caught acting anything worse than mischievous – and even such actions would be the result of his friendly, playful demeanour.

And perhaps most importantly of all, he was always there for everyone, no matter the problem or trouble, no matter how big or small.

So when he seemingly disappeared off the face of the Glade, quite a few of his friends were at the very least slightly worried. He wasn't even gone for a long time, but once he couldn't find him as quickly as he usually did, a teensie King raised some unnecessary panic.

Globox for one didn't seem to be too worried about it. He lazily blurted out that Rayman wanted some peace and quiet for himself and left for a short time-out – which wasn't that unusual. If anything, their last 100-years-long nap has proved well how much he and his friends loved peace and quiet.

Most were quickly reassured by the Rayman's best friend's words. If anyone knew him well, it must be him, they figured. So Rayman's – hopefully temporary – absence remained a casual topic among the residents of the Glade.

Exactly as the Hero himself wanted.

Rayman shared very little of his whereabouts and even less about his motivations and that info he shared only with Murfy, so he could find him should anything go wrong during his absence. He never shared the actual reasons for his temporary disappearance, though. As much as he disliked it at times, even some of his oldest and best of friends mustn't have known what was going on behind the confident toothy grin, below the playful glance, beyond the bouncy walk.

The Hero had already gone far away and hid well beyond the reach of any curious eyes, whether those of the friendly creatures or terrifying nightmares. It was not easy to locate such a place – but in the Glade of Dreams, there was more than just the two opposites, more than a joyful, colourful world dreamt up in a nap that battled the realms of nightmares and its servants. There was more, it was hard to find, but it was there.

In a solitary cave, somewhere deep and away from colour and sound, hidden from scents and touches, Rayman would sit alone and sitting alone he would remain – sometimes for hours, sometimes for days, sometimes it was impossible to tell – and he would cry. He would scream. He would hit with the strongest of punches into the thick walls of the cave until his knuckles went blue or the stone started to crack – and then he would punch even harder until the stone broke or the pain became too strong to bear.

Then he would lie down and breathe and breathe, as the images flashed before his glazed eyes, nightmarish thoughts he had only this way of dealing with, pictures he had to watch one more time before they'd be gone from his dreams and his head; he had to make them stop, stop reminding him, stop appearing in his sight when he least expected it – and to stop them, he had to relive them, and he would painfully let each of his memories play out.

Memory of every single time he failed.

Memory of every single time a teensie died before his eyes, trapped in a cage and desperately squeezing the bars, uttering its desperate plea for help in its thin, helpless voice, and every single time he repeated his mission, again and again trying to save them, every time just a little bit closer to his goal, a bit closer to freeing them from their certain death.

Memory of every time his body obnoxiously and painfully popped into nothingness, like a bubble in fire.

Memory of every time he was cut, slashed, chopped, squished, shredded, splattered, burned, drowned, poisoned, eaten, strangled, overwhelmed and defeated and every time he gave his life in order to redo what he had failed to do properly before.

Memory of every single time he died.

And every time the memory started rolling he would cry but every time it ended he would sigh with relief. One memory less. One step closer.

And when the end truly came, whether it felt like hours, days or even years and Rayman opened his eyes, he would feel as if it had all gone by in what must've been a moment. The horrors his mind was composed off suddenly seemed distant and somehow pale in comparison to before, somehow plain, as if he was remembering someone's frightening stories rather than his own unfortunate ends and the ends of his friends.

All stories are not meant to be forgotten, though.

When he came back, he was quickly and swiftly greeted by all of his peers, Globox boastfully proclaiming how he was right, how his friend had barely been gone for a day and how they should have nothing to worry about. And Rayman smiled and everyone smiled with him.

But the story-turned nightmares stuck with him, even if they felt like they weren't his own anymore. Every once in a while, he would shiver unnoticeably as a scene played out in his mind, as a thorny rose reminded him of the time he met his end on a spiky branch of the living jungle, as a campfire reminded him of the way a teensie looked at him before being consumed by a column of fire, as a frog in a lake reminded him of the terrifying, flesh craving creature whose teeth chewed him through so many times.

He had forgotten every time - but never quite. Never truly.

Even if you knew the trouble he'd been enduring and asked him about it, and if he were willing to give you an honest answer, he would probably tell you it is all a part of a Hero's work – after all, a Hero suffers so no one else would have to.

On the other hand if you, blessed in the ignorance of his ordeals, asked him what makes a good Hero, he'd tell you that, if a Hero is any good, he suffers little. For it always appeared to his friends that Rayman would get them out of a pinch in one smooth run, studying and absorbing the situation with one quick glance. He'd tell you a good Hero always smiles, always deals with the situation instantly and always does it perfectly well.

But he would under very few circumstances admit there is more to it. He wouldn't admit he long since stopped counting deaths. He wouldn't admit how many times he let his smile falter when he knew no one was watching or how many times he was afraid before heading into his own death.

He wouldn't admit he would do it a hundred times more if he had to for his friends and all who deserve it, because it would be his joy to protect them and his reward would be when they lived after he had to die for each of them thousands of times more, and thousands of times more he probably will.

After all, being the Hero of the Glade is a title brimming with pride and honour.


End file.
